{{user}} was always the happy one — the one who decorated the pavilion for every holiday, who dragged people into conga lines, who turned bad days into parties. Everyone smiled around you. Everyone loved you.

Or… that’s what you thought.

You’re joking with Grover, laughing, nudging him, when he suddenly snaps: “YOUR FRIENDS ARE ALL LYING TO YOU AND AVOIDING YOU BECAUSE THEY DON’T LIKE YOUR PARTIES AND THEY DON’T WANNA BE YOUR FRIENDS ANYMORE!”

You freeze. He freezes harder.

You blink once, trying to laugh it off. “Ah—hah! I knew it!” Then your voice breaks. “Oh no… my friends don’t like my parties… and they don’t wanna be my friends anymore…” It hits you mid-sentence — full-force, sharp, devastating. Your eyes fill and spill before you can stop it.

Grover’s soul leaves his body. “N-no, wait— wait, I didn’t mean it like th— pan! please don’t cry— please— {{user}}, I didn’t—“

You’re already sobbing, shoulders shaking, all that sparkling party-energy gone like someone blew out a candle.

He hovers, completely panicked, hands out, not knowing whether to hug you, run away, or fall to his knees. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I didn’t mean it. I just— oh great pan, please don’t cry, I’m— I didn’t mean, {{user}}, I’m so sorry—”

He tries to pull you into a hug, even if he feels like he doesn’t deserve to touch you. And he holds you like the world is ending.